The Right To A Voice

The other day, a piece of mine was taken from my Facebook and messaged to someone I have no contact with because of their simpleminded meanness toward me. This person referred to me as “young dumb pussy” to my husband when we were dating. This person used to like to get drunk and spam my Twitter feed with malice. This person has actual mental health issues (most likely bipolar 1, but I’m guessing) and a long history of unbalanced behavior, but still — there’s no reason for us to speak.

The person who sent him my blog post was a woman who once referred to me as her adopted daughter. That was long ago, and we’re not that close anymore — in fact, we never met. But we had a constant Facebook relationship for a while, that simmered down into amiable acquaintanceship.

So I thought until I read the message she had mistakenly copied me in on:

“I thought of you guys when I saw the title and read the first lines–dear god. . .in case you can’t see her link, here’s the url.”

This was immediately followed by a yellow-bellied apology so transparent it could have been window glass:

“I owe you an apology. I just realized that I included you on a message I sent to —-*. A message in which my near-50 year-old self was being embarrassingly catty about your pre-30 ramblings. My face is flushed and I feel queasy from the near instantaneous karmic-bitch slap…. I am sincerely sorry.”

*Name blocked to protect the low-minded.

This kerfuffle of sorts is why I haven’t posted anything new in days — but let’s be clear. It’s not because I’m upset. I don’t do “upset” over grown adults acting like teenagers passing notes. It’s not because I’m hurt, because that would require any sort of genuine feeling attached to these people, and I’ve come up short. It’s certainly not because I’m afraid that they’ll be reading this. If they are: hello! Get a hobby!

It’s because I wanted to write about exactly this, and didn’t know what to say.

What do you say about people who search you out just to be mean-spirited? About people who, when apologizing, do so while calling your writing “pre-30 ramblings”?

Speaking of which, what does that mean? Of course the ‘ramblings’ bit is derisive, but am I to believe that once you hit 30, you cease to ramble and your writing is then validated? That in three-ish years I can be a writer with a capital W and all?

You can’t see me, but I’m rolling my eyes.

In the wake of things like Gamergate, which I do not follow or participate in, but am nevertheless aware of, there has been much talk of the right to be heard, the right to a voice. I’ve never had that right questioned until now, but it’s not irksome, or saddening, or any such thing. I simply do not give a fuck.

A trio of maladjusted idiots can’t do anything to my voice. They can pass it around and laugh at it amongst themselves, if they wish. I would choose something more constructive and age-appropriate, but to each their own. They can’t silence me, edit me, or even mean more to me than blog fodder.

As writers, as women, as people — we all suffer criticism. But words, pretty or ugly, only penetrate as far as we allow, and I simply won’t allow it. Even Ariel gave up her voice willingly, and I’m not that kind of mermaid.

I won’t ever give my voice away.

Out-of-Genre Difficulty

I’ve been writing of business-type articles lately. This is not what I imagined when I dreamed of being a writer, and it’s also not my favorite kind of writing to do. I often dread it. I will more than likely put these pieces off till the last minute. Let’s get down to brass tacks: I’m a personal essayist and an aspiring/working novelist who says on her podcast that she doesn’t give advice — what business do I have writing about business? It’s not my best writing, I’m completely out of my element, and I look forward to being done with every piece as soon as I agree to take one on.

So why keep it up? Why actively pitch to multiple — not just one, but multiple — websites that feature business advice? Why put myself through this rigmarole time and time again?

One word: Hemingway.

“Newspaper work will not harm a young writer and could help him if he gets out of it in time.”

Hemingway worked for the The Kansas City Star for a few months after high school, and it has been said that he learned his economical style from newspaper work, when a story must fill a certain number of inches, no more, no less. Of course he got out, went to war, and went on to write The Sun Also Rises, the first of his ten novels — but this bit of wisdom survived alongside all the great works.

Today, as I sit in fear of my approaching deadline for a piece on brand-new businesses, this quotation does not give me inspiration, eagerness to write, or faith in my abilities to write something of both substance and quality, but it does show me what worth can be found in such work. Writing about my experiences in entrepreneurship cannot harm my young writing, and I believe it will help me — but how?

Following in Ernest’s footsteps, it teaches me about economy — people want their wisdom in shots instead of pints. I am a long-form writer who doesn’t believe in word counts, who encourages expansion rather than contraction, but that can lead to over-embellished repetitive prose. Why waste space and my readers’ time with something that could be said in a paragraph instead of a page?

Apart from that, these pieces have taught me how to struggle with writing, how to work in consecutive drafts, how to approach something that doesn’t come easily — I’ve always written about the personal without fear of opening up and sharing my darkest and brightest bits with anyone who cares to read them. But writing information, advice, helpful how-to’s. . .not my forte. I can’t rely on good first drafts, on a voice I’ve been using since middle and high school, on my laurels and ease and comfort zone.

I won’t. I’ll fight with every piece, and half despise it and myself for agreeing to write it, and procrastinate until I’m chain smoking, chugging coffee, and cursing — but I’ll keep writing them because there’s inherent worth in doing what you hate, in doing what’s hard until it isn’t anymore, and taking the lessons with you to whatever your pet project may be. So I’ll take this with me to my novel, and to my essays, and to my editing, with these words in mind:

It’s supposed to be hard. If it wasn’t hard, everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great.

Frustrations and Freelance

I’ve been freelancing for a few months now, and my resume is finally starting to fill out. I’ve been published at a handful of different places, with new ones coming on the horizon — I even got a paycheck once! But that’s my problem — the issue of “once.”

If you’re a burgeoning writer looking to become known, it’s for a reason. Perhaps you want to be a journalist, or an essayist, a poet, or a memoirist. I want to be a novelist because I’m just masochistic enough to understand that the novel is a dying art form, and just cocky and stubborn enough to think that I can write one (and not just any one, but a good one) anyway.

I remember being roughly 13-14 years old and reading In the Forests of the Night by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes. I didn’t look any of that information up. It’s burned into my brain. This girl, already my age, had written multiple YA books and had a contract with a publishing company to write more. Now, she’s 30 years old, has published 17 books with Random House, and I don’t want to begin to estimate her net worth.

In contrast, I’m 26 years old, have zero books published, have only been paid for one piece, and my Level app tells me that I can’t spend any money today (and most likely tomorrow) if I want to meet my goal of saving $125 a month.

And my husband wonders why I burn through e-cigarette cartridges.

But the point of that tangent is this —

I’ve wanted to be a writer since writing my first poem at 7 years old. I have wanted to be a novelist since I was at least 13. There was a brief period of time where I wanted to be a screenwriter, but I’ve arrived solidly back into novel territory, and I want so badly to earn a good reputation for myself while I work on my novel.

My mindset for 2015 is “keep going, and aim higher each time,” and so far that’s been working for me. Each new pitch has led me to a more respected pitch, or a pitch for a place with a higher readership, or simply the opportunity to be the best voice of the bunch, the best voice I can be just then.

It begins to fall apart, though, once you begin to understand how little return comes from any of this. I have published twelves pieces across five online magazines/collablogs, and thus far have been paid $50. Math-math-math: that amounts to $4.16 per piece, and fuck if I’m not worth more than that. Many of us are — and I say us because I also run a magazine of my own Every one of my writers is talented, and I would love to be able to pay them $50 a piece, or more. They deserve it, for what dedication and quality they give me. But, without people willing to advertise on the website, where does this revenue come from? I certainly don’t earn enough to pay people out of pocket.

There are some websites, though, that could easily afford to pay their writers. If not $50, then something smaller, but they could pay. Thought Catalog is estimated to be worth $2 million. The Daily Muse is estimated to be worth $93K. But Elite Daily  is aptly named — they have an estimated net worth of $64.5 million. They can bring in an average of $55K daily, which is more money than I make in a year. And yet a contributing writer is paid in exposure alone.

Meanwhile, of what worth is this exposure? How much of it can a single writer get from a single piece?

Obviously, that depends on the popularity of your piece, which, for those of us who hope to turn contributing to websites into a career of some kind, can be utterly maddening. You see, websites like these run on click-bait, non-content that will tell you “____ easy ways to ____,” or “____ things you didn’t know about ____.” Often there are no easy ways to _____, and you either knew those things about _____, or, once you read them, realized you didn’t care to know. These are the most popular forms of content for Gen Y. These are the pieces that perform the best, that get the most exposure, that are most likely to be featured on a website’s front page, or their Twitter, or their Facebook newsfeed.

And I ask you how exactly will this exposure help me become a novelist? How will it help someone else become a journalist, a poet, an essayist, or a memoirist? Because at the end of the day, the New York Times isn’t publishing listicles. Neither is HarperCollins or Random House, or Crown Publishing. So if listicles get you exposure, but no bona fide publisher wants them, how does this system benefit the writers?

I’m asking you because the online magazines aren’t answering.

Accuse me of being a typical millennial, unwilling to put in the time and effort to earn the job she wants if you’d like, but I know how hard I work, how many places I pitch to, how much time I spend writing, and editing, and podcasting — oh yes, I do that, too — on the downtime from my day job, and without any support from Mommy and Daddy.

Tell me that everyone is waiting for their big break, and I should keep trudging on until I hit mine, but there is a value to my time, to everyone’s time, and if I’m wasting it here, I want to know it as soon as possible so that I can move on and try something else.

Tell me to abandon internet pieces entirely and focus my attention on my novel, and I’ll remind you again that the novel is on hospice. You need to be known, as well-known as possible, before your novel hits the shelves, or in a month’s time, no one will be facing your book out at Barnes and Nobel anymore. Meanwhile, the average debut author’s advance is $5K-$15K, while debut royalties land somewhere around who the fuck knows. If your advance is the amount of money I make a month in my day job, that’s one month of living like a 26 year old married lady, and then eleven months of waiting for royalty checks that may or may not come, and whose amount cannot be well-estimated ahead of time.

So, then. It’s a balance between putting yourself out there, and putting your butt in the chair to write. And writing time must be distributed somehow between these online / freelance / contributing positions, and The Big Thing, the thing that’s going push you into the upper echelon of author, poet, journalist, and so on.

What’s the ratio? I haven’t a clue.

I’m just another writer like you, with a blog, an online resume, and some published articles. I can hope that my magazine and podcasting gigs will help me out, but the crystal ball is out of service. Sorry, folks.

But it’s almost damned certain that the system is broken, or at least fairly flawed — the surface of a thawing lake, with fault lines showing through. And it’s not something you can work. In the end, it works you.

#500WED: Why?

Why write? Why breathe?

I will be moving through my life and encounter a sentence like a bubble floating up from the bottom of a lake. It will pop in front of my face, and I will see it with utter clarity; I will know where it wants to be taken. Like a small child, it will grab my hand and I will feel the warmth of it, the solid form of its structure and intent, and we will walk together as it grows. Soon there is not a child holding my hand, but a grown person, and it releases me, waving good-bye as it walks onward by itself, fully formed.

*

I have aspirations to become something, someone of worth and weight, whose name is not known globally, but in certain circles is taken quite seriously. I want to surprise those people, the understanding sort of people, with my desire to speak with them, to learn about them, and maybe later, to write about them.

*

I carry a moleskine with me everywhere. It is blue, and the pages roll like Pacific Ocean waves due to some accident of humidity or of my own. Some of the pages are filled with practical lines – places to be, things to remember, notes taken during meetings I would rather not have attended – but there are ideas there, concepts that have not yet taken a form. They are simple amoebas, gelatinously evolving over the course of words or pages, and I let them sleep for a while until they are ready to evolve. In the meantime they grow, and I chart their progress mentally, trying not to disturb them or let them know I’m watching.

They find me, you see. I don’t go searching for them.

*

I am a detective. I have the trench coat and magnifying glass, see? I can snoop things out. I will dust for fingerprints, and track footprints and trail markers, and solve any mystery because I have crafted myself such that it is so.

I have scrimped and saved for the clothes. The attire of a detective is not given, but earned, through small cases, and pennies found between cushions, and advances given (“half now, and half later”) until you don the coat, or the hat, or the shined up black shoes, and people look at you and think, “That must be a detective!”

In reality, these things only provide the necessary image. People expect a certain look, and if you don’t deliver, you aren’t worth your snuff. Anyway, money is not difficult to find, and it only occasionally takes much time. What you need, what makes your insides worthy, is the forging of the metal for the handle, the blowing of the glass. There will be many attempts, and many castaways, many failures smashed in shame upon the floor or melted down again and again until unusable.

Finally, though, there will be a magnifying glass, and it is yours. It is a thing of beauty because it is a thing of usefulness, and it is yours. If someone stole it, it would be useless; they don’t know it like you do: where to grasp, where to look, which angle can use the sun to etch burning into things (you admit, you’ve practiced).

It is yours. You have made it. It is yours.

*

Why breathe? Why bring in the air only to let it out again, a repetition bothersome with its triviality, its automated mindlessness – what use?

Have the air or eschew it. You tease yourself with fullness and with the lack of it, and all the while changing, moving – even in sleep you do not let go of it, this security blanket of constant momentum.

Stasis is death, you say, pointing to the ones who have ceased to breathe, and then you walk on toward another destination, moleskine in the breast pocket of the trench coat, magnifying glass at ready in hand, and the other waves as the child, now grown, turns toward its new horizon.

Why? Breathe. Write.